


The Jerk-Off

by CleverChimaera



Category: Homestuck, homest - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleverChimaera/pseuds/CleverChimaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After half a sweep already of going crazy with boredom while the meteor lab hurdles across the Void, Karkat and Dave have an altercation over the infamous "chart page" that goes all Costa Rica.</p><p>(Takes place soon after Act 6 Intermission 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've written in maybe a decade, so I'm pretty rusty. Please be gentle.

Homestuck FF_Karkat and Dave

\--

 

 

"Kanaya? Are you here?"

 

Waiting a few beats for your eyes to adjust to the gloom, you step off the transportalizer and look around the study.

 

This room is always gloomy. A variety of strange, eldritch objects occupy the space, littered on far-too-grandiloquent gold-leafed furniture and lit by flickering candelabras that seem more ostentatious than practical. The air itself has a cryptlike smell--or what you imagine a crypt would smell like, based off your friends' vivid descriptions of the tombs they plundered before entering the game. Why couldn't your lusus have taken you to an area teeming with unexplored ruins like all your friends' had? Why did it take you to such a boring, desolate wasteland instead?

 

No sense ruminating on what once existed, before the meteors fell and destroyed your entire planet. You would never, ever admit it, but you still miss your home sometimes. You even miss your stupid beetle-faced lusus, who sometimes bit you, but was just as quick to spit healing balm on the wounds its sharp mandibles inflicted. Oh, shit, here you are, ruminating again. Gritting your teeth, you step away from the platform and begin an exploratory circuit of the large study.

 

Furniture and candelabras aren't all that decorate the chamber. There are also plant and flower pots, computer consoles, and books. Many, many books. Unless they're about troll romance, about the fascinating minutiae of quadrant vacillation and the delicious strife that comes with it, you don't have much use for books. But nonetheless, your eyes scan over each one as you step past it, idly grasping for any bit of information that might bear import once you escape the Void.

 

You move slowly, figuring you're just killing time until Kanaya shows back up in the study so you can ask her your important question. Or until someone else shows up, who you can then ply for the location of Kanaya. Who knows, maybe Terezi will show up, and wouldn't that be an unprecedented pleasure? As long as she doesn't show up with the goddamn Human Strider on her heels--an eventuality that you estimate about a zero percent chance of happening.

 

Your steps halt suddenly as your eyes graze past a particular book. Heavy and old, stuffed with pages the same gaudy gold color as the rest of this goddamn study, Rose had been using its crisp clean pages to record your party's heretofore-fraught-with-danger escapades, followed by half a sweep of pure doldrums. A useless exercise, but you suppose everyone has to develop some method for passing the interminable hours. Not that the Void really has such thing as "hours," or "days" or "cycles" or any other method of keeping time, at least not that you've determined. But again, not the point.

 

She doesn't use this book to record information any more, it seems. Little wonder why. Not quite allowing yourself to admit to your curiosity, you check first that you are still completely alone in the study, then sidle closer to the golden-paged book and crack it open. Leafing through pages covered in neat, human script detailing your adventures with enough excruciating prosaic prose to make even your battles with Jack sound dull and commonplace, you stop once you start encountering blank pages. Then you go back a few.

 

There. Eye-stabbing hot pink pen marks on dull gold. It was _supposed_ to be a time chart, if that goddamn Strider hadn't forcibly grabbed your hand and forced you to draw something else entirely. Now, rather than the intended beautiful lattice of lines and compartments, interlocking with sublime precision at ninety degree angles, your precious diagram has been graffiti'ed all over with bizarre nodules in the shape of human male proboscis, more colloquially known as "dicks."

 

Suddenly, the sight of such profanity fills you with consummate rage. You let out a tight scream of fury, and swipe at the book, intending to slam it shut with thunderous disapproval. But in your fury, your aim slips, and you end up messily tearing the page out of the book instead, along with several blank pages behind it. Dropped out of shock, the handful of pages flutter harmlessly to the floor beside you, leaving a ruin of serrated edges and claw marks in the book.

 

You stare down at the mess, for just one moment startled out of your anger. Then the volatile emotion sweeps back over you, richer and more complete than ever. You scream again, dropping into a crouch that would do dear departed Nepeta proud, and prepare to rip the pages into teeny, tiny pieces so infinitesimally small, they might well be confused for dust, and then swept outside of the study when it's chore time along with the rest of the garbage.

 

You're snarling as you tear at the paper, giving into baser urges and ripping it apart with teeth as much as claw and fist. As such, you don't hear the soft electric zap of someone entering the study through the transportalizer. You also can't see that someone has entered, thanks to the large table between yourself and the transportalizer, lined with candelabras and books.

 

But they see you.

 

"God damn, Vantas. What the hell are you doing over there?"

 

Fuck. You've been caught in the middle of an embarrassing display of irrational anger, and by none other than Dave-motherfucking-Strider. The fight-or-flight instinctual response triggers, pausing you mid-shred. And like always, you choose to fight.

 

"None of your fucking business, Strider," you snap back over your shoulder, then immediately follow with, "Taking out the trash." Thinking this is a fairly clever pun, you forcibly drop hold of the riffraff and rise up to meet him, keeping the table between yourselves for the time being. "Speaking of, what are _you_ doing here?"

 

Dave responds with the same utter lack of expression he always responds with. Maybe, just maybe, you could for the first time glean some kind of emotion from him if he didn't always hide his eyes with those idiotic coolkid glasses. Like that's ever going to happen.

 

"Looking for Terezi," he says flatly, and you feel your hemotransportalizing capillaries tighten.

 

Rage consumes you as if it never left. Making a sound low in your throat that is not unlike an Earth dog growl, you ball your hands into fists and start around the table, one deliberate stalkstep at a time. Only when you are barely an arm's length in front of him, close enough to smell the musky, peculiar alien scent of him, and count the bits of stubble--yet another alien oddity--growing on his chin, do you stop.

 

Doing your best to assume a tone that could freeze lava, you tell him, "Well, _she isn't here._ So _fuck off_."

 

Several beats of uncomfortable silence pass between you. His expression never flickers; neither, you hope, does yours. His eyes, irises especially, are hidden behind the reflective black of his glasses, but you have the sensation he is studying you. Like some goddamn weird bug he just discovered on his little planet. Like something not worth the time it would take to squish.

 

Your rage boils over, and you take a swing, claws extended.

 

"I SAID, FUCK O-"

 

Neatly, as if you'd been choreographing this unplanned fight all along, Dave sidesteps your faltering attack. In the next instant, he's behind you, grabbing you by the wrist in one hand and the upper arm in the other, and he twists both appendages tight against your body, pinning you ineffectually to his chest. The motion is so swift, it knocks the air out of you, and you have little choice but to spend several moments fighting for breath.

 

"No need for that, now," he mutters, chest rumbling at your back. He's so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him, and the alien smell is stronger than ever.

 

Recovering from your momentary surprise, you snarl, and yank yourself free. He lets you go, and watches you dispassionately as you whirl around to face him. _Fuck_ him for being so quick!

 

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" you scream at him, humiliation and anger combining into a seething brew. "TEREZI ISN'T HERE, SO FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF AND DIE, STRIDER! YOU ARE _NOT WANTED HERE_!!"

 

Strider says nothing, does nothing, not even straighten out his ridiculous hero's robes from where your brief stint of combat has rumpled them. Then, ever so slightly, one corner of his mouth quirks into an understated, yet no less cocky, grin. "Careful what words you keep throwing around at me, bro. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were hateflirting with me again."

 

God, Grub, and the Horrorterrors Beyond. This moron is a lunatic.

 

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I AM NOT--" Knowing that he'll likely best you isn't enough to keep you from making another vicious swipe in his general vicinity. "--FUCKING--" As you expected, he dodges out of harm's way. You don't care. You swipe again. "--HITTING ON YOU!! GODDAMNIT, DOES YOUR EGO HAVE NO BOUNDS?!? IT'S NOT ENOUGH YOU HAVE TEREZI AND KANAYA AND FUCKING EVERY OTHER BULGESNACKER ON THIS DAMN METEOR CRAWLING AFTER YOU? YOU BY SOME IMMENSE FEAT OF IDIOCY THINK THAT EVEN _I_ WOULD--THAT I WOULD--"

 

"Want me?" Strider finishes for you, deepening his smirk. "Hey man, I'm just reading the signs. Just because I choose not to take part in your dipshit quadrant troll nonsense doesn't mean I don't understand it. Right now, this pure unabated fury you're directing at me--I'd say that's pure kis-whatsit. A regular fuckin' textbook example, this here is."

 

This is impossible. _He_ is impossible. No matter what you say, no matter how valiantly you seek to injure him, the narcissistic shitsponge will choose to interpret it whatever way _he_ wants to, and apparently that way is that you're actually so pathetic as to feel even the tiniest, remotest, unfeasible inkling of attraction to his goddamn coolkid facade.

 

A small, unacknowledged part of you logically assumes, then, that the best way to diffuse this erroneous notion about what ideas you have roiling around in your thinkpan would be to _ignore_ the self-seedflap-massaging bucket of putrefying bulgefluid. Totally ignore him, and act like he's not even there.

 

But you can't do that. Not won't, _can't_. Your hatred for this sopor-slurping sack of shitbrains is so absolute that you are simply physically unable to pretend he doesn't exist. It's as if throughout your entire existence, maybe even before, this invertebrate-in-glasses has been at the edge of your consciousness, clawing at you, tormenting you, humiliating you, just by _being_. To suddenly deny the existence of something that pail-wallowingly pervasive simply by deciding to is about as likely as you are to renounce all claims of hatred and make nicey-nicey-facey-facey with everyone you've ever completely detested. Which, by the way, is everyone you've ever met, or are likely to meet.

 

"Daydreaming about what sucking my epic dick would feel like, are we, Vantas?"

 

His smug accusation rips you out of your inner monologue like a pail of cold water to the face. Or just the pail. He's not even standing in front of you anymore, you realize--he's made his way past you, over to the wreckage half-hidden behind the table. Shouting in furious alarm, you scamper after him, but reach his side too late.

 

You haven't quite had time to rip the pages into infinitesimal scraps like you'd planned to. Some of it is still recognizable, and Strider is holding one such piece in his sweaty, shitstained palms, carefully unfolding it to get a better look. Forced to look on in horror, you notice for the first time his shoulders go rigid, then start shaking, ever so little. What the fuck is wrong with him?

 

"Oh, god," Strider whispers, then bursts quite amazingly into a full-throated guffaw. He jumps sprightly to his feet, holding the scrap of paper in one hand and reaching the other out towards you in an open-palmed gesture of supplication. His glasses still hide whatever's going on between nose and hairline, but everything else is twisted up into the biggest grin you've ever seen him wear. Actually, come to think of it, you don't ever remember seeing him grin at all.

 

"This--this is--I forgot all about this! Jegus, Karkat! What in all the void-mired hellterrors inspired you to go digging up and attacking _this_?!" Still laughing, albeit less uproariously, he sticks the offending bit of paper in your face. Unable to help yourself, you recoil, but not before catching a flash of hot pink penis.

 

"I DIDN'T _LOOK_ FOR IT!" you declare angrily, still yelling to hide your utter mortification. "I JUST _FOUND_ IT, AND LIKE I ALREADY SAID, I WAS TAKING OUT THE TRASH--"

 

"Uh-huh." Finally, Strider stops laughing, and it's a good thing too because the unexpected sound of his unbridled amusement was causing peculiar effects in the general vicinity of your bulge. Must be some weird quality of alien tonal vibrations, you decide, and take a step back. Strider, in turn, takes a step forward, so again you step back. This process continues until you come quite abruptly upon a high counter, preventing further retreat. You aren't sure what expression you're wearing at the moment, but you have the ugly feeling it might be a look of terror.

 

Strider stops as you do, and releases the paper to flutter down between you. Then he moves closer, well into your personal space, and puts his palms calmly to either side of your hips on the countertop. You lean back as if he were a ripperwasp about to eat your face, but you're only so flexible. And he's taller than you anyway, even if only by a few inches.

 

"The fuck are you doing," you hiss, but fear and curiosity have stolen the rage from your voice.

 

"Nothin'," Strider replies, shifting his knee ever so slightly, until it comes up between yours. Your breath sucks in despite your best intentions, and Strider releases a low, rumbling chuckle. Its alien tonal qualities dance up and down inside of you, and you made a soft sound nearly akin to a whimper. "You're such a shitty troll, princess. You always have been. Don't pick a fight with the Davemeister unless you've got the 'shame globes' to see it through to the end."

 

"What the hell does that even--" you start to question, but cut off into a startled hiss as Strider bears down upon you, pressing your hips into the counter with his own.

 

This is very strange behavior. No troll you can think of would ever behave like this, certainly not matesprites and not even rivals in the throes of kismesissitude. You ought to be repulsed, and in some ways you are. But you're also fascinated. _You_ might not be capable of ignoring the existence of Dave Strider, but that particular act seems to be something he's quite good at. The most he ever looks at you is to patronize you or taunt you with ambiguous statements about his growing relations with Terezi.

 

"What...are you doing," you mutter, more of a statement of disbelief than a question. Strider doesn't answer either way, leaning closer still, angling his face until you feel the rough stubble of his chin brush against your cheek. Overcome with weirdness, you close your eyes tight and shudder. The shuddering only worsens as his hands slide closer, fingers drift away from the countertop and up your sides, coming to rest under your shoulders, where he pulls you closer with a little tug. Then you're kissing, and you _still_ don't know what to make of it, because you never in a million sweeps would have pictured yourself in this scenario with _anyone_ , let alone Dave Strider, and you certainly don't want this and you wish he would just stop already and go snog with Terezi or someone else and just _leave you alone_ , because--

 

"Such a kitten," Strider says with a snicker, pulling back slightly to look you up and down. You see a reflection of yourself in his glasses: not at all the usual Karkat, furious and pent up like a ball of knives. You look dazed, mind-addled, a bit sleepy. There's a little bit of moisture on your black lips, making them glean.

 

A beat passes. You begin to catch wise to the situation, and react suitably. Your hands jerk up, palms flat on his chest, ready to shove him away as hard as you trollanly can. " _Get the f-_ "

 

"No." Strider pulls your hands apart, pins them on the countertop, and leans into you. He kisses you again, pressing his much-too-soft human lips against the harder carapace of yours, moving and molding with them in a way that shouldn't be possible, but is. You're so startled that you entirely forget you were about to shove him backwards, hopefully into some pointy-ended candlesticks. Something within you is thrumming, and you start to feel kind of wonderful, even beneath all the confusion and embarrassment and everburning anger. Your body starts to do things without asking for your permission first--your hands clench into fists under his, but not hard enough to pull free of him; your hips arch, and you feel some kind of hard structure pressing much too near your bulge; your lips fall open ever so slightly, and despite the razor edges of your dentition, Strider bravely pushes inward with a strong, hot muscle you assume must be his tongue.

 

"Mmm..." Your body continues to misbehave most frustratingly, including your throat, which releases a soft groan. His grip on your hands finally slackens somewhat, and you pull free of them. But rather than shove him away, your hands creep up to his shoulders, then his neck, then his hair, pulling him into the kiss even deeper. His newly freed hands go to your waist, plucking you up the short distance to place you on the counter, and quite naturally your legs swing up to wrap around his torso. The hard feeling against your bulge gets harder. Your breathing catches, and under your fingertips, muscles shift subtly in Strider's neck.

 

"Goddamn," Strider mutters, or you think he mutters; it's hard to tell with his voice muffled against your mouth. He pulls back, straining against your tight grip in his hair, but quickly returns, prickly beginnings of a beard roughly grazing your jaw on his way to kiss you on the neck. You're almost beyond caring at this point--the part of you that's telling you to attack Strider, to bite him in the jugular and toss him to the ground like the pool of discharge he is, has grown very, very small. And besides, this feels amazing--even you'll admit it. Despite the bizarre, brutal adventures you've gone through with your friends over the course of the game, you are still a young troll on the cusp of adulthood, and it's perfectly natural to want to engage in such activities. Just...not with Dave Strider.

 

This is getting unbearable. You squirm a little, pushing a computer console or microscope or eldritch grimoire or some other such thing off the counter onto the floor, not even caring enough to see if it's shattered or what it was. Strider laughs and pushes another thing off the counter, then he hooks around you by the edge of your pants and drags you to the very edge of the counter, pressing into you with a hardness that you finally realize must be his own bulge. Well, so that's what a human bulge feels like. You've seen enough of them in the human romance movies you've secretly, avariciously consumed, and read descriptions of them in the human romance novels, not to mention the wizard-centric short stories you've 'borrowed' from Rose without her knowledge. But seeing and reading are quite different from _feeling_ , and oh wow, it's weird and wonderful, and you can't help responding, making soft noises and clinging tight with your legs.

 

"Vantas..." Strider whispers, sounding rather more affected than you'd ever thought the coolkid was possible of feeling, and you freeze in sudden shyness as he starts to fumble with your pants.

 

"Hey, what are you--" you start to demand, flustered and affronted, but he's too fast for you. The construction of your clothing must not be so dissimilar, that or he's gotten more familiar with troll clothing over the last half-sweep in scenarios you really don't want to picture right now, because suddenly he has the edge of your pants down past your hips and his hand is down inside of it, plunging recklessly into literal alien territory.

 

Then it's _his_ turn to freeze, as his hand closes around your bulge, which twitches and coils around his hand in turn, and you can't help a shuddering moan.

 

His glasses aren't large enough to completely cover the look of discomfort and vague horror that takes over as your bulge pulls even tighter around his hand, giving a faint surge. The look of horror becomes more apparent and he tries to pull his hand away, which has the unfortunate effect of confusing your bulge into securing itself even more tightly around his hand. "Wh--gah!" he yelps, and tugs again, tugs hard enough to hurt.

 

Immediately, your bulge starts to soften, and the dazed euphoria drains out of you. Shame replaces it, shame and anger, and once more you put your hands up to his chest and prepare to shove him. This time you succeed, and he trips a little as he falls backward, just barely managing to keep himself from stumbling onto a table littered with books and flower pots. You have the fleeting glimpse of a newfound solid mass still hidden under his pants, but otherwise his look of startled horror thoroughly douses your libido. With a snarl of wrathful embarrassment, you pull your pants back into place and hop off the counter, grimacing at the imprinted memory of his body pressed hard against yours.

 

"Don't look so fucking disgusted, you heinous undulating asshole.  _You're_ the freak here, not me." Your words and tone could lacerate even the hardest heart. Even your own.

 

 Strider continues to look stunned, slowly picking himself up off the table and absentmindedly brushing wrinkles out of his robes. His ridiculously long cape is strung out behind him, a darker crimson than your blood. It whispers softly as he starts to take a timorous step towards you, but he stops as you visibly recoil. "Uh...right. Sorry, Vantas, for once I didn't mean to piss you off, I just--"

 

"WHO'S PISSED OFF?!" you rage at him, sounding very pissed off. "WHAT THE HELL DOES ANYONE HAVE TO BE PISSED OFF ABOUT?!" On the edge of hysteria, you laugh sharply, an insulting and deliberate ha-ha-ha. "YOU MORONIC TWIT, YOU PHLEGM-GUZZLING CHOLERBEAR'S BITCH, DON'T YOU SEE? I WON!"

 

The look of confusion returns to his face, brows drawing together, or what parts of them you can see over the rims of his glasses. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

 

"THE GAME!" You laugh again, louder than ever. Ha, ha, ha. "THIS FRIENDLY LITTLE JERK-OFF WE JUST HAD! _YOU_ WERE TRYING TO MAKE ME FLINCH, TO INSPIRE A SURGE OF COQUETTISHNESS THAT WOULD PUT THE MOST LIBIDINOUS OF YOUR HUMAN ROMANTIC COMEDY HEROINES TO SHAME AND, AS YOU HUMANS SAY IT, 'CHICKEN OUT,' BUT I DIDN'T! INDEED, _YOU_ WERE THE ONE WHO COULDN'T HANDLE WHAT _YOU YOURSELF_ INITIATED, YOU GELATINOUS CORUSATING GUTLESS GRUBMUNCHING _SHITFUCK!!_

 

"IN SHORT, IN SUMMARY: I WIN, YOU LOSE!!"

 

As the last of your thundering tirade echoes off the study walls, the stunned silence that follows keeps you both in check. Strider is staring at you, unreadable, and you can hardly breathe for all the emotions roiling around your insides. There are too many to name, all of them too potent to handle--you feel like you're on the edge of exploding, of quite literally spontaneously combusting with enough vitriol-fueled fury to take out this entire meteor and, hopefully, Dave Strider with it. One especially of these emotions is very familiar to you, and one you would rather snip off your own prong than lay at the doings of this fuckass. The hot, painful miasma of shame twists inside you, making you feel like a ripe, hardened seedsack about to crack and break apart.

 

Bit by bit, Strider's expression softens, and then he does perhaps the fifth thing that day you never, ever imagined seeing him do. He sweeps the edges of his cape past his shoulders, and kneels.

 

"Yes," he says, expression hidden by more than just glasses. "I guess you're right. You win, I lose."

 

Is...is this really happening? Of course, nothing that's happened since you entered the study feels like reality, and you have already wondered more than once if you're trapped in some kind of dreambubble hell. Quite unsure how to react to this development, you take an uncertain step forward, then awkwardly lower yourself to the ground beside him, not in a kneel but simply a crouch. "So...you admit it?" you ask, doing a horrible job of hiding your astonishment.

 

"I admit it." His voice never changes, and yet it sounds somehow a little tired. "You win. But only _this_ time, Vantas." And with that, he's his usual self again--regarding you with cool amusement, lips pressed in a neutral line that nonetheless radiates how superior he considers himself to be. Your own mixed emotions settle, and you jerk back to your feet, deciding on impulse to kick at him. He catches your foot and holds onto it, and you nearly embarrass yourself even further by falling down. "Ah-ah-ah," he tsks. "I already admitted to your victory. It's bad form to kick your opponent once he's yielded."

 

You don't think you could ever picture Strider 'yielding' to anyone, and you're more convinced than ever that this has to be some kind of ploy. But whatever, it's the only possible outcome you see to this situation where you bear the remote chance of escaping without completely shredding what's left of your self-worth in the process. Yanking your foot back, you retreat, and thrust a finger out towards the transportalizer. "Well then. Take yourself out of here, like I've been telling you to all along, loser. And take yourself to the ablution block. You're disgusting."

 

Strider lifts himself with quiet grace, somehow elegant even in the midst of so-called defeat. He flashes you the briefest of smiles, gives you a mocking salute, then turns heel and makes for the transportalizer. In a quick hum of electronics, he's gone.

 

The study feels very quiet once you're alone again. With no one around to judge you, you collapse right there on the floor, breathing heavily and trembling all over. Memories surface with the vehemence of a seething musclebeast on the hunt, complemented by answering sensations at the affected areas. You remember the startling potency of your first kiss, and the second one, and the mess of kissing and necking that followed while you were completely submerged in the mindless swill of rutting. You still feel the imprint of his hands on your waist, hoisting you onto the counter. You very clearly remember what it felt like with his hand wrapped around your proboscis, and it around his hand. The memory kills you, and yet there's a tiny part of you that wishes it could have kept on that way.

 

But no. He reacted with horror, as well he should have. Frankly, _you_ were horrified as well. You have yet to see his dick in the flesh, but you'd felt it, and what sort of embarrassing, bald, shapeless mass was _that_? How was a human male ever going to secure himself inside a human female's nook with no way to latch on inside?!

 

Damn, you wish you'd gotten to at least see it.

 

Wait a minute. What the hell did Strider say, just moments before leaving the study?

 

"Only _this_ time."

 

Oh hellbeasts. Does that mean what you fear it does? Is he actually going to engage in this sort of thing _again_?

 

How in the Void are you supposed to prepare for something like that?? And what by all the Mother Grubs of all the universes that ever have or will exist will you do if he _doesn't_ chicken out next time??

 

Oohhhhh....

 

" _FUUUUUUUCK_!!"


	2. The Jerk-Off--Round Two (?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week after your bizarre interlude with Vantas, you cross paths with Terezi, who wants to throw her own hat into the let's-fuck-with-Strider ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this thing is terrible. I wrote this days ago and have been trying to edit it into something at least semi-decent, but it's not cooperating. So I guess feel free to skip this chapter or whatever, I'm just putting it here for progeny (and to punish myself).

"Listen bro, I'ma tell you how it is.

 

"Wisdom coming at you fast, like sagacious jizz.

 

"Been stuck on this meteor, this post-apocalyptic meet-and-greet, or,

 

"As the KK likes to say, 'snogfest,'

 

"A test of the arresting powers of co-habitating this nest,

 

"Vacillating quads and emo-aggro SOBs,

 

"Sucking faces, xenophilic races, going through the paces to see who's the 'best,'

 

"Wish I was jesting but it's no contest, gray aliens and hot-blooded teenagers mixed up in this hot mess.

 

"Boredom's a bitch, and you're on the prowl,

 

"Getting jiggy with these fillies, prove these pails ain't shallow,

 

"Oh my bad, now you're blushing, did I say a bad word?

 

"Titillating tentacle-dicks with the slick-ness of my own massive sord?

 

"Guess you got burned. Or in this case, spurned.

 

"Your auditory organs on fire as my ill rills keep this rock turn-

 

"-in', put it on spin, keep us all floatin' till the last fight begins,

 

"For realz, dawg. That's how you win."

 

Yeah. You pause for breath after unloading such righteous raps such as the horrorterrors could never have imagined. You might not have Rose's Seer powers, but you can feel them just beyond the meteor, squirming around in the Void. Sitting alone at the top of the lab, you've got front row seats to the best Utter Nothingness has to offer.

 

Speaking of nothingness, you used to wonder how you could even breathe up here, despite your admittedly tenuous grasp on elementary physics. Does the meteor have oxygen? Where do the resources for the food-producing machines come from? If you drop a pail--pardon, wastebasket--of droppings into the Void, will any elder gods hear it? But now, you don't think about such things anymore. It's a needless errand in frustration, and you've got enough actually-tangible shit to keep you frustrated already.

 

Like the damn red/black romcoms that have taken over your teenaged band of merrymakers (not to be confused with mirthmakers, fuck that shit) ever since you launched off on this epic journey of time-wasting and accomplishing fuck all. It's really too bad John isn't here, because he'd be eating up this pansy-assery that's taken over every goddamn grub on this meteor. Shit, you mean hu--er, person. Yeah, person. Goddamnit, the damn trolls are even rubbing their lingo off on you. Just a matter of time before you're spitting nonsense about bulges and protein chutes and shame globes and all that jazz. Where were you? Oh, right. Romantic bullshit.

 

Even Rose and Kanaya, those cool-headed mistresses of monotone you used to have mad respect for. Which, you guess, is kinda hot, or is supposed to be hot according to the primordial mandate that "all non-homosexual dudes shall be turned on by girl-on-girl action." But that shit got a whole lot weirder once you started thinking of Rose as your half-sister-by-ectobiology. Not to mention the whole alien-fucking aspect of it. Trolls might look like gray-skinned humans with extra head-bones from the waist up, but they got a whole different brand of Gigerism going on under them clothes, as you yourself discovered. It's been a week and a half since that event--according to the time-keeping devices the others managed to scrounge up from the bowels of the lab--and you still can't completely quell a horrified shudder whenever that particular piece of memory crosses your thinkpan. Shit, you mean brain.

 

And yet, there's just this tiny, mutinous strain in you that's a little bit thrilled by it all, startled but intrigued, like you just found some kinda hideous but compelling monster you just _gotta_ get close enough to captchalogue. You've been doing a pretty good job of avoiding kraken-pants since that little interlude, of course keeping your deliberate evasiveness a secret by exercising your natural grace of nonchalance. But now and then when you do cross paths, you find yourself unusually hard-pressed not to take a gander at his junk, as if you might divulge some kind of clues by the outline under his astro-slacks or some shit. Not that you'd ever, ever admit you wanted to look, and you'd stabe ur sord through any motherfucker who even intimates you wanna.

 

Damn, it's not like you to get so hot and bothered about shit that hasn't even happened. KK must be infecting you with his perma-rage, like some kinda cantankerous rash. If Vantas was an STD, you're pretty sure he'd be crabs. Woah, why the hell did your brain go there? Now all of a sudden you feel like you have ants in your pants, so you push up off the edge of the building and start stalking around the blank expanse. Heh, even your inner monologue can't help but bust rhymes.

 

It sure as hell is boring up here. But it's just about as boring everywhere else on the meteor, so you figure you might as well stay put. Sighing deeply, you pull out your captchalogue and start rifling through your collection, looking for something, _anything_ , to relieve you of this mind-numbing boredom.

 

Then you stop rifling, certain you heard approaching footsteps from the stairwell below. Could be anyone--even Rose, since the cheeky girl insists on foregoing her flying powers out of pity for the nonflying members of your posse--but you can guess who it is. You _know_ who, in fact. Of course it's--

 

"Terezi?"

 

"Heeeey!" The troll girl greets you with an exuberant, slightly risqué wag of her forked tongue, smile blazing beneath her ruby shades. Once upon a time, your blood ran hot for this vixen. Even now, the sight of her pushes you just a little bit out of your stolid stature. You have history, you and her. She and you. A history that's maybe more complex than either of you have any desire to say out-loud. After all, she's the only one who really gets your humor, and lays it back on you pound for pound when you break into a GIF-off, though such things have become a lot harder to manage since dear departed Nepeta's drawing tablet disappeared somewhere into the lab--

 

"Earth to Dave?" Startling you back to the present, Terezi grins even wider and moves a little closer, sashaying in that way only she has perfected. She rests long, sharp nails on your be-caped shoulder, and leans in close, giving your cheek a loud sniff. Hidden under your glasses, your eyes close and you shudder ever so slightly. "S'not like you to do the mopey-mambo up here. You and KK still having a tiff?"

 

"Hey. No. If Vantas wants to follow me around with a raging boner, that's his deal, not mine. Doesn't affect me one way or another, s'long as he keeps his kraken-pants away from my--"

 

"Kraken-pants?" Terezi interrupts you with a confused titter. "What's a kraken?"

 

Shit, you didn't mean to share that tidbit with her. Reveals too much about what you've already seen. "Just a mythological monster. Sort of a nautical hambeast," you scramble to explain, tilting your head slightly to catch her eye, not that the gesture means anything when dealing with a blind girl. "Supposedly existed in ancient times, gargantuan sea-dweller, known for causing tidal waves and pulling ships under and just in general having huge, bitchy fits. You know, like Vantas does, or would, if he had anything going for him besides being loud-as-fuck."

 

"Hmmm." You're not sure how to interpret that 'hmmm,' but Terezi says nothing else about the matter, so you hope that's the end of that. And anyway, she's distracting you again, rubbing her hands all up and down your body like she's a sculptor and you're a lump of clay and wow that is the gayest metaphor ever, what the fuck, brain.

 

"Hey Terezi," you mutter, when she's somehow stooped beside you and has her razor-sharp teeth dangerously close to your groin. "You sure you oughta be doing that? I mean, right here, where any ol' body could just walk up and see this? I mean, I'm prepared for whatever, you know me, can't be fazed, but--"

 

"Oh, you're so paranoid," Terezi teases, and nips very gently at your pants. You grit your teeth together, and refuse to be affected. Refuse to admit it to yourself, anyway. "No one comes up here anymore, unless to look for dreambubbles, and Rose already said we should be bubble-free for at least the rest of the week. Besides, even if they saw, who cares? It's not like our little redrom is a secret--"

 

"Hey. Hold up." Breathing once in a tight sigh, you tangle your fingers in her hair and gently but firmly pull her away from your junk. She looks up at you with what one might call puppy-dog eyes, if puppies had inch-long incisors and wore pointy-edged blood-red shades. "Whatever this is, don't go qualifying it with troll terminology and such crap, and don't you _dare_ start bringing that quad bullshit into this. I _told_ you, I'm not about to take part in any nonsense regarding your alien shipping chart machinations--"

 

"Dave, you're such a sopor-slurping idiot!" Despite the venom of her words, Terezi doesn't seem entirely off-put by your lecture. She cackles for the third time, twists free of you, then dances to your backside with a quickness that would do Lil Cal proud. Before you have time to summon up a proper tirade of rule-establishing that will put this silly chit in her place, her hands slip around your waist and down to your pantline, and then with no apology at all, they venture the rest of the way down to your nibbly bits. For a good three seconds, you're too startled to say anything, a precious three seconds she makes full use of by coiling her agile fingers around your dick.

 

Man. Maybe you've been going about this all wrong. Maybe you oughta put your oddball infatuation with Vantas aside and just focus on this smoking alien babe who very obviously has a thing for you. Well, not literally a "thing," at least you hope not. You've never actually gotten that far with her, mostly out of fear of her capricious nature combined with her numerous sharp-edged anatomy. Actually, this is maybe the most intimate you've ever been with her, and maybe her forwardness--well, more-than-usual forwardness--is a sign that she's as bored and frustrated as you on this stupid rock. Maybe, then, this doesn't have to be the big deal you're afraid of it turning into. Maybe you can just enjoy each others' 'company' a little, and not have to deal with any dreaded "morning after" awkwardness. If any girl's capable of not pulling that clingy cliché, it's Terezi.

 

"Dave," Terezi whispers in a throaty murmur, right into your ear. "Dave. What is this I am touching, exactly? Is this something all humans have?"

 

"Just--" Your breath catches as her exploring fingers touch you up and down. "Just the dudes. And, er, trans-ops, I guess, but that's--" You trail off again, and relax ever so slightly back against her. She responds by licking your ear, which sounds a lot more erotic than it feels. "--N-nevermind. Um...Terezi, that particular piece of humans is a little--well, a little sensitive, so I'd appreciate it if you were careful..."

 

"I'm the essence of carefulness," Terezi coos, and nibbles at your earlobe, which again sounds more erotic than it feels. Gentle or not, her sharp fangs prick your skin, inspiring a response you didn't know you were prone to. Tilting your head to the side to deliver another forceful warning against rough handling, the edges of your glasses bump together, and for a split instant your naked eye fixes on hers before your hand whips up and sets your specks aright. It's taking increasing amounts of willpower to keep yourself straight on your knees, and your throat's clamped tight around what you'd die before admitting to as a whimper. You're discovering a not-unhealthy amount of caution about letting her put her hands on your sensitive parts, but at the same time it's brazenly titillating. You always did enjoy meeting your match.

 

"You seem to be enjoying this," Terezi says, and you don't bother to summon up the gumption to deny this. "Do you like me, Dave? Does this feel good?"

 

After a few moments of silence, her grasp and stroke of your dick slows to a pause, and you realize she's actually waiting for a response from you. Doing your damnedest not to let your impermeable facade slip, you pull yourself up a bit straighter, reach down to put your own hands over hers, and start to guide her back into the rhythm you're yearning for. For just a moment, you take a fleeting glance at the stairwell, half-imagining a fluffy head of black and nubbly horns rising from below, but then chastise yourself for the imagery and focus on Terezi. "S'not bad," you admit grudgingly, once she has the rhythm of it and is doing a much better job of not weirding you out. That is, unless female trolls also have--you wisely choose not to finish that thought.

 

Suddenly Terezi tightens her grip, and you jump. "Ow!"

 

"Too hard?" Judging by her laughter, she is not overly concerned for your well-being. "Sorry, candyblood. But it's boring if you have _too_ much fun!"

 

"No danger of that, babe," you say with a grimace, still smarting. Maybe you shouldn't fork over the figurative reins just yet. In fact, you take hold of her hands again and pry them off, certain you feel some dampness on your fingertips that's probably blood. Not a lot of it, thank gog, or you'd be in a world of pain--and she'd probably orgasm on sight. Er, smell.

 

"Aw." Terezi gives you a despondent scowl. "C'mon, don't be a baby. I won't do it again, I promise!" Then her nostrils flare and she takes a big sniff, eyes widening behind ruby. "Ooooh! What's that? Are you _bleeding_?"

 

Too late. "Don't act so damn happy about it," you mutter, giving yourself a wide berth between you and the blind girl. Yes, second thoughts are on mad-influx. This was a terrible idea. "I'm not into that kinky shit. Nor are most people, at least people I know. If they are, I don't _wanna_ know. Fuck, Terezi--Why d'you damn trolls always get a guy going, only to ruin it by making things _weird_??"

 

Terezi cocks her head to one side, and you realize you blew it again. "'Us trolls'?" she asks. Of course, she asks. Several rows of incisors pull into a wicked smile. "Oooh, Strider. Have you been exploring past xenophilic bounds with someone else on this meteor while I was off helping the Mayor keep peace in Cantown? Who? Who?!"

 

"What? I never said--" You pause, breathe out slowly, try to recollect yourself. "I haven't, and even if I did--which I _haven't_ \--I'm not the type to kiss-and-tell."

 

"Since when? Yes you are." Terezi cranes forward, incensed with curiosity. "Tell me who you're getting red with or I'll make you bleed again, candyass!"

 

"Don't you fucking dare," you hiss. Wow, your junk is really starting to sting. You really hope you aren't going to have to hunt down some bandages, because you've never stuck a band-aid to your dick before and you can't imagine it would feel very pleasant to do so. Chalk up yet another _terrible idea_ you let yourself get dragged into. Man, you really gotta stop being so nice to all these whackos. Like right now, you really gotta think of a way to derail Terezi's line of questioning, before she goes for the kill--or, worse yet, figures out who you're secretly pining for, and lets that person know. "Damn, you're really starting to sound like a crazy ex-girlfriend," you say instead, grinning subtly. "You gonna tap my cellphone and go apeshit every time I leave your line of sight? You gonna take a selfie and turn it into a meme to represent crazy ex-girlfriends everywhere?"

 

Terezi looks at you blankly, the ambiguous meaning of your statements completely lost on her alien understanding of human culture. But at least she isn't advancing towards you anymore. Granting yourself a breather, you erect firmer control over the situation, as the only god-tier present ought to be able to. "Forget it, it doesn't matter. Look Terezi, this has been dope, but uh, you cut that shit out, you hear me sis? Maybe we'll try this again someday, but uh, not until you get them finger-daggers filed down, and maybe them choppers while you're at it. And as for the other matter, you better drop that steaming pile of moist doglickings right the fuck now, or I never let you partake of my glorious 'candyblood' again. Capeche? That is, you understand me? Terezi. _Terezi_. Stop laughing and tell me you understand."

 

"Oh, I understand alright," Terezi says, still laughing despite your orders. "I under _stannnnd_ everything...no words necessary. I can smell you blushing from all the way over here!"

 

"What? No." You never blush. Bitches be crazy. Whatever, you're probably wasting your breath here. It's that damn sickness, the one you were musing over just before Terezi decided to invade your private-time with the Void--even Terezi's got it, and she's trying to stick it on you. "Anyway, you stay here. I've got shit to do and I can't have you following me, crazy-ex-meme. It's bad enough I got Vantas following me everywhere with his tongue all lollin' out like a dog doped up on tranquilizers. Or on sopor,  I guess, if that makes more sense for you." You turn, pointedly facing her with your backside, preparing to make a grand exit down the stairs. Only--

 

There's now an incensed Karkat glaring at you, poised at the top of the stairs with his hackles up and his hands curved in readiness to gouge out your eyes. His fury is so palpable that for just an instant, even _you_ are afraid, until you remember he's all bark and has no actual talent for effective violence. Reckless with surprise and unexpected relief at the sight of him, you grin hugely and offer him a nod. "Speak of the devil."

 

"I AM NOT ONE OF YOUR JUDEO-CHRISTIAN DEVILS," Karkat immediately shouts in response, his words somewhat incoherent with instantaneous rage. "WHO, FROM MY UNDERSTANDING, ARE LITTLE MORE THAN PLOT DEVICES AND SCAPEGOATS USED TO EXPLAIN REPREHENSIBLE BEHAVIOR IN WEAK-WILLED HUMANS. BUT I COULD FILL A VOID WITH HOW MANY SHITS I DO NOT GIVE ABOUT THAT. OR RATHER, ABOUT YOU. HOW MANY SHITS I DON'T GIVE ABOUT _YOU_. IN FACT, PREPARE YOUR WASTE-DISPOSAL CANNAL FOR THE EMPHATIC IRE OF MY NOT-GIVING-A-SHIT--"

 

"Woah, straight to the butt-sex euphemisms, are we?" you interrupt, and enjoy watching him sputter. While the two of you have a glare-off, Terezi approaches from behind and rests her hand on your shoulder in what would be a chum-like display of camaraderie, if her fingernails weren't digging painfully into your flesh.

 

"See? Understanding," she says to you under the onslaught of Karkat's shouting, her voice rasping into your ear with an intimacy you're convinced was engineered to give Karkat even more cause to be angry. Not giving you the occasion to figure out what that meant and respond, she pats you once on the shoulder, again on the rump, then sashays past the both of you to the stairs.  As she crosses by Karkat, she stops, and whispers something into his ear as well. Whatever she says immediately shuts Karkat up mid-vocal tempest. Pulling back with a sinister smile that promises more future trouble than you're yet equipped to handle, Terezi winks at you and disappears. Still frustrated to know what the hell her remark to you meant, you start after her, but stop as Karkat Karkat snaps out of his shocked stupor and jerks around to face you. Terezi's words seem to have increased his rage ten-fold. You know Karkat is harmless, that you've defeated way harder enemies many times on LOHAC and even before that, in your daily strifes with Bro. You _know_ this, and yet as he faces you, only one thought solidifies in your think-pan--

 

_Run_.


End file.
